


'til it ain't

by thisishardcore



Category: Columbine - Fandom, True Crime - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Columbine, Drabble, Ficlet, Gen, Guns, Suicide, Violence, sorry - Freeform, sorry x2, they dont fuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:20:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26724304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisishardcore/pseuds/thisishardcore
Summary: It was funny to think that gods couldn't die, that they weren't bound by the same rules of energy and consumption.
Relationships: Eric Harris & Dylan Klebold
Kudos: 7





	'til it ain't

**Author's Note:**

> i didnt really edit and i dont wanna look at this any longer than i have to, so sorry bout that. looks like im back on my columbiner bullshit.

It's a strange feeling-- his heart might beat right out of his chest, fall right into his lap. The police sirens feel incredibly far away. Right now, him and Eric, the bleeding library, the grip of the shotgun-- The world is incredibly small. He likes to think that now he knows these kids better than their own parents. Something, something, knowing their last moments, or whatever. Guess that means they know him better than his own parents, too.

He looks back at Eric. It was funny to think that gods couldn't die, that they weren't bound by the same rules of energy and consumption. The sirens are far away, but Eric is close, the brightest thing in the room. Years of breathing the same rotten air is the only thing that helps him understand the look in his eye. _It's over._ And Dylan knows that. There's no way the both of them would end up alive, no way to curve the passage of time. But right now, in this bleeding library, he can almost feel the curve of light around the both of them. When the light stops reaching them, he wonders if they'll stop existing, if they'll stop saying their names in their houses, wipe their memories clean.

All the anger simmers down, settles somewhere between his stomach and lungs-- and all the plans, the movies, the stolen fireworks, and gifted guns-- none of it means anything. All that's left is the two of them, Eric and Dylan, just like before.

Funny to think that anything could solve this aching feeling of alienation, this clawing on the wall of his chest-- funny to think that one explosion of rage was the answer, the proper payback for years of living hell. He will die with this ache in his chest, unsolved, unrelenting. He will die next to the body of the only person who saw all of him at once, as opposed to the fragments he handed out to everyone else, the bits and pieces shrouded in thick veils.

He wonders how they'll pour over the tapes, if they'll even let anyone see what lied behind a trained persona. (It wasn't a lie, the face he put on, but it wasn't quite the truth either; there was always something lingering on every sentence he spoke, every joke he cracked, that to the untrained eye just looked like lack of social awareness.) He knows that no matter how long they stare at the picture he and Eric painted, they'll never understand all the easter eggs put into it.

Eric leans up against the bookshelf, and it's like a curtain falling. For a moment, it's hard to believe that any of this is real. It's hard to believe that this is what everything's come to. In a few moments, their skulls will be pulp on cheap carpet, the last victims of countless symptoms. It'll be over at least. It'll be done. Maybe not Doom, but close enough. The blood feels enough to stick to his hands in the next life. It's hard to say which one pulls the trigger first-- but Dylan tastes blood. Closed eyes and numb limbs, it's his last meal.

It's a strange feeling. His heart is completely calm now, still in his chest, and it feels like hours before anyone comes in to assess the damage. It feels like hours before his hold on the room completely fades. It feels like hours.


End file.
